


hurt me so good

by gravitational



Series: sweet thing [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Confessions, First Time, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitational/pseuds/gravitational
Summary: After a lord's unwanted advances spur Geralt into action, the White Wolf takes its mate to bed.Sequel to "call me sweet thing"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: sweet thing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622704
Comments: 76
Kudos: 1540
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	hurt me so good

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend reading "call me sweet thing" first.
> 
> "Bounty On My Head" - Grizfolk

Geralt has never in his life been more grateful for the way it tends to take only a single glare for anyone inclined to conversation to veer away. Evidently, the temporary lack of the witcher at the ball had caused some discussion, and, naturally, the _fine citizens_ want his input - to ask if he went off to kill a creature, no doubt - but Geralt has no interest whatsoever in joining in said discussions, not when he has his bard in tow.

Jaskier's holding his lute with one hand and Geralt's sleeve with the other, letting himself be pulled along through the milling, talking, dancing, laughing crowd. A glance backward shows his bard has his head down, cheeks red with something no longer limited just to alcohol, throat bitten halfway to hell and clothes rumpled despite their best efforts to the contrary.

The witcher isn't a fool - he knows people will see, and people will talk, and people might get mad.

He's never made a habit of caring what the people think, and he doesn't intend to start now.

The first to lay a hand on his bard will be the first full human whose blood winds up on his hands.

As he wedges himself through a small group of lords and ladies currently chatting up a demure storm, he hears a barely-concealed gasp of surprise, catches a frustratingly familiar scent, and Geralt glances sideways.

The lord from earlier is watching them, eyes wide, frustration and indignation evident in his gaze.

Geralt can't resist baring his teeth then, a quiet sneer, nearly a snarl, as he pulls his bard away.

-

Jaskier stumbles as they near the carriage outside, the one he had absolutely insisted they rent for the night, because, yes, he may just be a lowly bard hired to perform, but even the entertainment arrives in style, and no offense, Geralt, and no offense, Roach, but - 

"Shouldn't have drank so much," Geralt says, amusement laced into his tone as he opens the door for him. The driver is watching, face carefully blank, so Geralt doesn't do more than lay a hand on Jaskier's back to help give him the momentum required to get up into the cab. "You're hopeless, Jaskier, really."

"I don't see you complaining," is Jaskier's snarky reply, and Geralt merely hums, climbing in after his bard and shutting the door behind them both. "Well? Are you?"

Geralt shakes his head, fighting the ghost of a smile that seems to want to rise to his face. In the past few decades, his smiles have been few and far between... and yet, in recent history, it's been Jaskier who causes them, more often than not.

He's been good about ignoring the implications of that up until now.

"Not complaining," he says aloud, watching with an arched brow as Jaskier sets his lute down and begins to immediately undo the doublet with which they had struggled for the better part of ten minutes. "What are you doing?"

Jaskier gives him a look that quite clearly implies he should know. Geralt merely looks back, and his bard huffs. "It's bloody uncomfortable," he says, getting it off and folding it in his lap. "Just because it's expensive doesn't mean it's nice, and besides, I've been acting under the impression that I won't necessarily be _needing_ it presently..."

"Hmm."

Quite obviously the wrong response, as his bard's eyes go momentarily wider, and his face a little paler. "Is that not - was I wrong?" he asks, and Geralt is quick to realize his mistake.

He reaches for his bard then, laying a hand on his knee, and takes private pride in the way Jaskier shivers under even that gentle touch. "Jaskier," is his simple response, and the bard relaxes.

"Okay," he sighs, and laughs, soft and anxious even still; Geralt can't blame him, not really. With a subtle lurch, the carriage settles into motion, and Jaskier eases back into the plush seats.

He really had spent far too much on the carriage.

-

Jaskier tastes of wine.

This is something of which Geralt has become quite certain in the past few minutes - that is to say, in the five or so it's been since they made it back to the tavern. They had taken the back stairwell into the building, both to evade detection and to keep Jaskier from being tempted by the bar down below. Part of Geralt is just guilty enough about Jaskier's intoxicated state to want him as far from alcohol as possible for the remainder of the night, but the rest of him...

Well, the rest of him is finding it immensely difficult to focus on anything apart from Jaskier.

He has the bard pinned with his back to the door of their rented room, both hands firm on his hips, though that seems to do nothing in terms of keeping Jaskier from moving - _squirming,_ really. Even a low, warning growl does nothing to quell Jaskier's evident desire to crawl straight into his chest and live there, the bard's nails biting into Geralt's skin as he fumbles to strip off the blasted _refinery_ he's wearing. 

It's Jaskier who pushes him away first, gets his outer coat halfway down his shoulders before he braces his hands against his chest and shoves. Geralt resists for all of a heartbeat, growling rough against his lips, but Jaskier is insistent, and so he complies, breaking away and going still, panting softly for air. "Everything alright?"

"Is everyth - bloody hell, Geralt, of course," Jaskier huffs, and he sounds breathless already, even though Geralt has only been at his throat for maybe three minutes tops. It sends a rush of pride through his veins, and he holds his bard a little more tightly, though he remains motionless, waiting. "I would simply _very much_ like to move to the bed, you oaf, as these bloody pants are simply the height of discomfort right now - "

Geralt knows well enough when Jaskier is about to ramble.

He cuts him off with another kiss, feels the wolf inside him purr at how immediately his bard goes slack, silent, hands flat on his chest. Geralt imagines it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to say that Jaskier would be more than content to kiss him wheresoever he damn well pleases. Pushing aside his satisfaction at the thought, he runs his hands down, down until Jaskier is whimpering with the brush of his fingertips along his ass... and _lifts,_ scooping him up with one arm beneath him and the other at his back. Jaskier yelps aloud, moans into the kiss, tangles his hands even tighter into Geralt's hair.

"Easy," he murmurs, though he doesn't break the kiss - doesn't even dream of it, not with Jaskier locking his thighs around his waist and arching closer against his chest as though he could die happy here and now. Jaskier, of course, doesn't listen, so Geralt feels no guilt in moving them toward the bed. When he dips lower, setting his bard against the sheets and crawling close above him, he knows he doesn't imagine the tremor that runs through his thin frame.

This time, it's Geralt to break the kiss, though it hurts him nearly physically, especially when his bard whimpers after him. "Easy," he repeats, settling on his knees between Jaskier's splayed legs to look him over. "Easy..."

He trails off then, wolf-gold eyes raking over the angelic thing beneath him.

Jaskier looks just as rumpled as he had in the hallway at the ball, eyes blown out and lips kiss-bitten red. He'd dropped his doublet somewhere by the door, leaving him in nothing more than the chemise that had driven Geralt mad earlier and the very pants Jaskier had been complaining about. As he lays there, he blinks once, slow, shifts, drops his hands from Geralt's hair to lay above his head, and it's clear the movement is unpracticed, uncertain, but gods, if it doesn't send a rush of _need_ through Geralt's blood when he sees his bard all bared and begging...

"You look beautiful like this," he breathes at last, and Jaskier flushes red, turning his head away. He's dropped his thighs from where they'd been locked around Geralt's waist, but they're still splayed, and the witcher's eyes drop lower, following the rumpled hem of his chemise down to where it's untucked, rucked up, baring pale skin below. Purring low in his throat to reassure his bard's quivering, he runs a palm up beneath the shirt, flattening against his stomach and feeling his muscles jump. "Relax, my love, let me take care of you."

Jaskier doesn't answer at first, his fingers tightening around his opposite wrist as he breathes in deep. "You can take care of me by getting these bloody pants off, for starters," he mumbles after a pause, huffing out a laugh that Geralt knows is little more than a front. He hums in response, sliding lower to undo the laces on his bard's boots. "Okay, well, that's close enough, I suppose - "

"Jaskier," he breaks in, glancing up with arched brows as he pulls the first one off and lets it drop by the bed. "Quiet."

His bard subsides with a rather flustered noise, but at least he's obedient. He lies still while Geralt strips him of first his second boot and then, finally, his pants, and judging from the relief that flashes across his face when Geralt peels the latter off and discards them off the edge of the bed, they really _had_ been uncomfortable. Not surprising, considering the force with which Jaskier had climaxed less than an hour before.

With an amused exhale, Geralt sits back on his heels, taking the chance to look over his bard once again. Bare from the waist down, Jaskier seems all the more restless, fingers tight around his wrist and head turned to the side as he lets Geralt survey him. "Beautiful," he repeats at last, voice low, and Jaskier shivers, about to speak, but Geralt cuts him off - lays his hands on his thighs, guides them apart, leans down to lick a broad swathe up the underside of his cum-sticky length.

Jaskier's reaction is immediate, a pitiful little gasp of his name as he bucks up - or tries. Geralt holds him firm, pinning him flat by the upper thigh and licking from root to tip, over the swollen and dripping head. "Oh, _gods,_ Geralt, don't - if you keep going, this might be over before it begins - "

"You want me to clean you off, don't you?" Geralt interrupts, looking up at him through darkened eyes. Jaskier is still hanging onto his hands, and it sends a rush of pride through Geralt that his bard doesn't even need instruction. "You've been complaining all night..."

His bard sucks in a sharp breath, finally nods, though he squirms when Geralt's grip tightens. Leaning down, he licks over him once again, eyes falling shut as the salty-bitter taste hits his tongue. Jaskier tastes of heaven, even though his seed is stale, and fuck, he can only imagine... Purring low in his throat when Jaskier squirms, Geralt licks over the dripping head, working his tongue into the slit until his bard _whines_ and swallowing the precum that leaks out.

Groaning at the taste, Geralt finally takes him in, closing his lips around Jaskier's cockhead and hollowing his throat to sink lower, lower - lower until he's nuzzled into his skin and Jaskier is panting, hips straining beneath the witcher's hold. He holds him firm, swallows once, then twice when it makes his bard groan, finally draws away to lick his lips clean. "You trust me, don't you?" he murmurs, and his heart...

... his heart kicks when Jaskier nods immediately, nods even though his chest is heaving as he tries to breathe. "Of course I do, Geralt," he murmurs, and now he drops his hands, reaching down.

Geralt surprises himself with how quickly he takes his hand, locks their fingers together and presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier's. "Let me take care of you," he repeats, soft against his softer skin, and there's something shining in Jaskier's eyes, something upon which he doesn't dare let himself dwell. "How much can you take...?"

"As much as you can give me," is the reply, barely even audible.

The wolf _aches_ for him then - but Geralt fights it down, though his next breath is nearly a snarl as he turns Jaskier's hand over, nuzzles into his palm and presses a kiss to the hollow of his wrist. "Will you let me eat you out?" he murmurs against him.

He feels, just as much as he hears, Jaskier's breath hitch. "Please," his bard replies, and Geralt purrs.

Letting go of his hand, he sits back, then thinks better of it. Locking eyes with Jaskier, he takes hold of his hips once again, pulling his bard down to the edge of the bed as he slips off to kneel on the floor. The other man is light enough in comparison that it's nothing for Geralt to slide him down the rumpled sheets, and judging by Jaskier's little gasp, he wasn't expecting it in the slightest. "You're alright," says the witcher aloud, stroking his thumb along the curve of Jaskier's hipbone. "Relax..."

"Gods, Geralt, it's rather difficult to relax with you pulling stunts like _that,"_ Jaskier huffs, propping himself up on his elbows once he gets settled. Positioned like this, his thighs are over Geralt's shoulders, and it takes only a gentle squeeze of Geralt's hands for him to get the hint and actually relax. "I know full well you're as strong as an ox, there's no need for you to prove it every few seconds - "

Geralt never will understand how he can ramble on and on...

As per usual, he takes it upon himself to quiet his bard, giving him a pointed look before he leans in, nuzzles into the crease of Jaskier's ass - waits until the other man breaks off before he lets himself lick over his hole, groaning at the taste. Here, his scent is even heavier, arousal blending with his natural musk to make a fucking intoxicating aroma that has Geralt's head spinning already. The wolf inside him bristles, snarls, keens in satisfaction when Geralt points his tongue to press inside.

Jaskier bucks beneath him once again, and Geralt hears the sheets straining - no doubt he's grabbing for a handhold, and - and _fuck,_ Jaskier's hand is in his hair now, fisted tight to keep him close, and that's enough to draw a groan from deep within his chest. "Geralt, oh, gods..."

There's no point in shushing him now, not when Geralt knows full well he'll merely be crying out in the next instant, not when he smells so good, tastes so _good..._ Growling against him, he closes his eyes to press that much closer, licking in deep. He feels Jaskier squirm beneath his hands, feels his thighs tighten around his head, and gods, dying in this fashion would be far from the worst death he could have foreseen. Adjusting his grip to hold him higher at the waist, he lets Jaskier move more freely, lets him rock his hips to - fuck, to try and ride his tongue - 

He draws back then, sucks in a gasp for air and turns his head to nose into the pale skin of his thigh. "Geralt," Jaskier is whispering, and his hand is more gentle in his hair now, and he's shifting still, squirming still, "Geralt, my love, your mouth..."

Geralt's response is to _bite -_ to sink his fangs into the soft and pale and supple flesh of his thighs, to lock his teeth in the tender muscle until Jaskier jerks and gasps and cries. "Easy," he repeats quietly, and he nuzzles in closer, licking over the mark he'd left, tasting blood just beneath the skin. The wolf yearns to bite again, to draw it out and to the surface and down his throat, and he shudders with the thought... "Easy, my love, you're alright..."

"Your mouth," Jaskier repeats, and he sounds nearly drunk, drugged with lust even though they've only barely begun. _We've only barely begun,_ and, fuck... _fuck._ "Your teeth, Geralt, your - your _teeth - "_

Something within his heart eases then. He's filed his fangs as long as he can remember, done his best to keep them short, to keep them out of the way... but Jaskier seems all but feral for the points of his canines, and, well, who is he to deny his bard a thing?

Chest rumbling with a steady, soothing purr, he switches to the opposite thigh, licking a broad stripe along Jaskier's skin and setting his teeth to the flesh, letting his bard quiver beneath the tips of his fangs. "Please," Jaskier breathes, and then, again, louder, when Geralt merely huffs, "please, Geralt, _please,_ bite me, you can't hurt me, you never could - "

He groans as he bites down, his own hips bucking nearly as hard as Jaskier's when the coppery tang of blood bursts onto his tongue, and he's quick to draw back, to lick over the puncture wounds - shallow, small, beading red - and soothe his bard with a whisper of his name. "Relax," he croons, though he knows it's as good as pointless. "Relax, my love, my little lark, I've got you..."

"I know you do... I know, Geralt, I - I know..."

Only when Jaskier goes slack on the bed does he draw away, loosening the death grip he's got on his waist to run his hands down his thighs, still locked tight about his neck and shoulders. "You trust me with far too much," he murmurs, and he doesn't have to look to know that Jaskier is shaking his head. The grip in his hair is gentle now, and when he feels fingertips skate down along his brow, his cheek, his jaw, he leans into the touch and purrs, eyes falling shut. "Far, far too much..."

Jaskier strains to sit up straighter, using his legs at Geralt's back to give him the leverage required to reach his face more completely, and when he feels hands cupping his jaw, Geralt tips his chin up, opens his eyes just enough to meet his gaze. "I'd follow you to the grave, my love," whispers his bard. "Allow me to be the judge of what's too much."

Geralt gives a soft huff of laughter, and there's a smile rising to his face - faint, fond, ruined. "I trust you've got oil somewhere in this ridiculous getup?" he drawls.

The transition of Jaskier's face from completely enamored to extraordinarily indignant occurs in a split second, and Geralt can't help but laugh, turning his head to bestow an apologetic kiss upon his wrist. "You always boast about traveling prepared," is his placating response.

Jaskier merely huffs, but as he lets go of Geralt to lay back, he motions in the direction of the pants currently elsewhere upon the floor. "Well, for once, you're correct," he mutters, obediently pulling his legs back off of Geralt's shoulders when the witcher moves away. He shifts to settle properly on the bed once again, propped on his elbows to watch.

"We've traveled together long enough, bard, you are nowhere near as unpredictable as you believe," Geralt says over his shoulder, rummaging through the concealed pockets until he finds a small glass vial. "Tell me... how often have you done this to yourself?"

He gets silence in response - silence except for a subtle hitch in his bard's breath. Geralt turns back to the bed, and he goes still there, drinking in the sight before him.

Clothed in nothing more than the rumpled, undone chemise, Jaskier is laid back upon his elbows, legs still splayed... thighs bitten and bruised, bleeding where Geralt's teeth broke the skin. His throat is hardly any better off, spotted with teeth marks and bruises all along the column, darker below his jaw, darkest yet just beneath his ear, where Jaskier squirmed when Geralt bit down. His cock is flushed and swollen, curved up against his stomach, dripping precum onto the hem of that goddamn undershirt...

Jaskier gives a soft, inquiring noise, and Geralt clears his throat, though it's quite nearly a growl, as he moves to kneel back between his thighs. "I asked you a question, dove," he murmurs, meeting Jaskier's gaze, and fuck, he looks helpless, eyes blown out and dark and dazed... and as Geralt watches, as he looms closer above him, flattens a hand against his chest to push him down, fear flashes in his eyes... but not of him.

Not that kind of fear.

He feels his bard's chest shudder beneath his hand as he breathes in, and Geralt purrs, presses Jaskier to lie flat against the sheets, watches as he bunches his fists into the fabric at his sides. "How many times, my little lark?"

Jaskier wets his lips, and Geralt's eyes dart to the tip of his pink tongue, so tantalizing there, between kiss-swollen lips. "Since I met you?" he manages, and he's speaking softly, almost cautiously. "Every night you've left me alone... I've wanted you all these years, Geralt, you can't honestly tell me you didn't know..."

Geralt breathes out slowly, muffling a groan as he leans down to kiss him. Jaskier arches immediately, straining against the hand still pressed against his frame as he kisses back. When the witcher pulls back, his bard is panting yet again - it's easy enough to tell that he's worked up, wired, needy...

"Relax," he repeats as he settles back on his heels, uncorking the vial to pour some of its contents across his hand. He sets the vial aside as he rubs his fingers together, eyes on the way Jaskier is letting his legs splay even farther apart, so eager, so willing... "Let me take care of you."

"I trust you," comes the reply, and it's spoken so quietly, with such genuine emotion, that Geralt cannot help but groan. He sets a hand on Jaskier's hip, holding him steady as he rubs over his hole. The bard flinches, just a little, but he isn't tense - it's virtually nothing for Geralt to ease a finger into him, and the low little moan he gives sends a rush of satisfaction through his veins. "Geralt, I assure you, I can handle far more than - "

It comes as no surprise that Jaskier is disinclined to quiet himself even in these circumstances.

Likewise, Jaskier shouldn't be surprised in the slightest when Geralt's response is to press another finger inside, and to push them in _deep,_ the oil and his own saliva making it impossibly easy. Jaskier's hips jerk then, and he gasps, breaking off in favor of going slack. "There we go," Geralt croons, rubbing his thumb along the curve of his bard's hipbone and waiting until his bard's tension eases to murmur, "Darling... let me turn you over, okay? Onto your knees..."

The bard gives a quiet whine then, but he nods regardless, eyes already dazed when he tips his head down to meet Geralt's gaze. "Anything for you," he murmurs, and his voice is so genuine...

Geralt's heart aches for him.

He draws his hand away, takes his fingers from his hole and guides Jaskier to turn. His bard is trembling already, skin flushed red, and when Jaskier settles upon his knees, Geralt leans in to kiss the small of his back, breathing in deep of the sweat pooling there, of the musk hanging heavy on his skin. "My lark," he croons, laving his tongue along his skin, feeling him _shudder_ just below his hands. "My beautiful, holy little lark..."

"Geralt," Jaskier breathes, and he's settling lower, drawing a pillow down to wrap his arms around it and bury his face - no, to rest his head, to turn his face sideways, to watch Geralt through eyes that are so lost, so dark, so dazed... "Geralt, if you don't do _something_ now, I may well cry, Geralt, for gods' sake."

Still, always and forever, his bard.

Geralt eases two fingers back into Jaskier's hole, into his sweet, soft heat... "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever been blessed enough to see," he murmurs, feeling the tremor that goes through his bard's frame. "Every night, watching you perform... listening to you sing..."

Jaskier whines in response, low and wavering, and he presses back onto Geralt's hand, back into his tongue when Geralt dips it low into the crease of his ass. "I thought - I thought you hated my singing," is his only reply, and Geralt laughs against him.

"I doubt I could ever truly hate anything you do," he tells him, spreading his fingers apart within him, feeling his body give way. "You're insufferable, yes, and there have been times I've wanted little more than a moment of silence - " here he feels Jaskier go tense, feels his breath hitch, feels him draw away " - but the weeks I've traveled alone, since I've known you? They've been the worst of my life, Jaskier, and it's been a harsh one, as you well know."

The other man breathes out slowly, and he's relaxing again already; Geralt watches as his bard's eyes fall shut. "I can't bear to be alone now," he says, and he sounds so weak, so vulnerable...

Geralt is in motion before Jaskier can speak another word, kneeling up behind him, pressing against his spine and reaching for his hand. He weaves their fingers together where Jaskier's hand is clenched tightly against the pillow, squeezes, kisses the nape of his neck and purrs out low when Jaskier shivers under his weight. "Stay with me," he whispers, "let me care for you... I'm sorry for the days I've sent you away, for - for anything I've done to wrong you, my lark..."

The moan his bard gives is soft and broken, merely rising in pitch when Geralt crooks his fingers, presses upward against the little nub inside his trembling frame. "I assure you, my love, th - there is nothing you could do to wrong me apart from leaving this bed before dawn, oh, _gods,_ Geralt, please - "

"I've got you," he murmurs, pressing the words into Jaskier's skin. He parts his lips, lets the tips of his fangs ghost across the ridge of bone, feels his bard shudder under his weight. "I don't want to hurt you, Jas, let me - "

But Jaskier is already _whining_ for him, his hips bucking in response to the constant pressure against his prostate, and his next breath is quite nearly a sob, and fuck, Geralt can hear his blood pounding in his ears, can feel the wolf inside him fucking _yearning_ to mount and breed. "I can - I can take more, Geralt, give me three, I can take it, I just want your cock..."

Geralt fights the tremor that rushes up his spine with those words.

He doesn't need a mirror to know that his eyes are blown out, dilated, gone dark with desire.

Murmuring reassurance to the man beneath him, he sits back entirely, pulls his fingers from Jaskier's hole and reaches for the oil once again. "Steady," he reprimands, though he can't deny the thrill of arousal he gets from watching Jaskier arch and whine in protest. As he wets his fingers, he goes still, looking over the beautiful thing before him yet again.

He's still wearing that damn chemise, the one made of fabric far finer than Geralt deserves the right to touch, the one with lace here and embroidery there, and it's rucked up high on his back from Geralt's weight, and it's no doubt just this side of too hot, because Jaskier is flushed red and sweating, panting with every other breath...

He looks sinful, wrecked, wanton... and as if he knows what Geralt is thinking, Jaskier arches under his gaze, grabbing at the sheets with his newly-freed hands and - and, fuck, rolling his hips, grinding down into _nothing,_ cock hanging heavy between his legs, and Geralt snarls at the sight.

"Be still, my lark," he tells him, a stern edge creeping into his tone. He stays on his heels this time, keeping a firm grip on Jaskier's hip as he pushes three fingers into his stretched and dampened hole. His words have clearly fallen on deaf ears, for the new intrusion causes his bard to groan, arching back into his hands. Geralt bites his lip, digs his nails in, crooks his fingers upward into the nerves and fighting a groan as Jaskier _keens._

"Gods, Geralt - Geralt, _please,_ please don't stop...!"

Geralt leans in to kiss the curve of his ass, spreading his fingers apart within him. "I don't intend to," he murmurs, grazing his teeth and then his tongue along the smooth, pale skin. "I need you to relax for me, my love, I don't want to hurt you..."

The little whine Jaskier gives indicates he's doing anything but; it's to his credit that he manages to go slack, though he shivers when Geralt thrusts his fingers in deep, draws them back out almost entirely, settles into a rhythm... one that is absolutely, entirely designed to ruin his bard. "You could - you could never hurt me," he chokes out, and fuck, the things he does to Geralt...

"I appreciate the sentiment," he says, in a tone clogged with emotion he refuses to feel, "but I doubt you could take me just yet, no matter how... _eager_ you may be."

Jaskier gives a raw little huff of laughter, and Geralt lets himself smile, hiding it against the curve of his ass as his bard mutters, "I think you should let me be the judge of that, witcher... i - if it weren't for my determination, you would have never let me travel with you, and that - a - and - _o - oh - "_

Geralt had, once again, taken it upon himself to quiet the other man, and had crooked his fingers up mercilessly, splaying them wide within Jaskier's body as he rubbed across the nerves inside him. The reaction is fucking instantaneous - Jaskier's knees buckle, and he nearly collapses forward, crying out into the pillow clutched tight against his chest. Quick to move as always, Geralt hooks his free arm beneath Jaskier's hips, draws him back closer, keeps him at least mostly upright as he croons reassurance against his flank. "If it weren't for your determination," he mumbles in reply, "I wouldn't find myself in nearly as many of the predicaments I do."

Jaskier is not quite so gone as to be incapable of a laugh, although it's breathless, and he turns his head against the pillow, looking back at Geralt with eyes that are blown out and nearly black with desire, the darkest shade of blue Geralt has ever seen. "You never complain," he says, and Geralt arches a brow, knows Jaskier can see it despite the no-doubt uncomfortable angle of his head. "Not - not _seriously,_ not really, oh, _fuck,_ Geralt, _please - "_

\- and he truly is sobbing now, frame racked with a broken gasp for air, and Geralt's fingertips are digging deep into his spot, digging in and _rubbing,_ and a glance between Jaskier's thighs show he's fucking dripping wet, precum pooling on the sheets beneath him...

"Can you handle twice?" Geralt asks, so abruptly that it surprises himself, and at first, Jaskier doesn't even answer, so he repeats himself, lower, "Can you handle coming twice, Jaskier? Can you come like this, on my hand?"

Realization strikes Jaskier just in the same moment that Geralt draws his fingers back just a little, barely enough to give him some rest, and Jaskier sucks in a breath, barely manages the words, "Oh, _fuck,_ fuck, yes, I can - I can take it, Geralt, _please,_ just - just let me come, Geralt, I can't - your _fingers - "_

Geralt clucks his tongue in subtle reprimand at the way Jaskier is writhing back onto his hand, though he finds he truly does not care. He turns his head to kiss his bard's flank, holds him firm with the arm braced around his waist as he presses his fingers in deeper, deeper still...

... and it takes only another instant for Jaskier to break, bucking against his arm with a strangled cry, a broken moan, a word that could have been Geralt's name, could have been "please," could have been "love - " could have been any number of things, and yet it's lost in the needy little noises he makes as he falls apart, spilling onto the sheets beneath him without a single fucking touch.

The scent of Jaskier's seed hits Geralt like a fucking blow to the face, and he chokes back a _snarl,_ milking his bard through until the end. Only when Jaskier begins to whimper and squirm does he pull his fingers out, lips curling back in a silent growl as the scent of his open and willing hole reaches his nose. He eases the man to lie flat, guesses Jaskier's cock isn't too sensitive, based on the way Jaskier collapses willingly at his guidance. "Breathe," he murmurs, low, and kneels up above him, smoothing a hand up under the chemise to flatten against his back. "Breathe, my little lark, you're alright..."

Jaskier is shaking, his frame racked with little tremors despite Geralt's efforts to steady him. He turns his head, gasps out a quiet plea, relaxes only minutely under the slow, methodical circles Geralt is rubbing into his back. "You have brilliant hands," he murmurs, closing his eyes. His face is flushed and damp with sweat, and his lips are parted even now, and he looks... he looks like sex itself. "Give - give me a minute, I need... need to catch my breath..."

"Don't rush yourself," is the witcher's reply. He's rigid above the bard, and he feels as though he may overheat, still clad in everything but his armor, cock fucking aching where it's trapped inside his breeches. He leans down to kiss the nape of Jaskier's neck, to draw in a deep breath - _the best thing he's ever smelled_ \- before he stands up. It's as he's tugging his tunic up and over his head that he hears Jaskier whimper, low and broken, and once he's free of the fabric, he's quick to look back at him, prepared to offer reassurance - 

but no, Jaskier is merely... staring, drinking in the sight of him, and when he realizes he's been caught, the bard's only reaction is to push himself up onto his elbows, to breathe out shakily and let his gaze drop lower. Geralt gives a low hum of amusement, his hands stalling at the laces of his breeches... and the noise Jaskier makes is so impatient, so heartbreakingly needy, that Geralt can't find it within him to keep teasing.

He drops his pants then, letting them come to rest on the floor and returning to the bed as his bard pushes himself up higher. "Easy," repeats Geralt, low, as he cups Jaskier's face in one hand, tilts his chin up to kiss him. "Stay like this, my lark, okay...? Lay down flat..."

Jaskier is panting when Geralt pulls away, even though the kiss had been gentle. "Okay," he says softly, settling down flat. "O - okay..."

Geralt croons in subtle praise as he moves to kneel between his bard's splayed thighs once again, flattening a hand against the small of his back to keep him steady. "Do you want to undress?" he asks him softly, eyes on the sweat beading on Jaskier's skin. "You have to be warm..."

The other man doesn't answer at first, hazy eyes on Geralt. Finally, he shakes his head, mumbling, "No... no, you - you like it, don't you? Me wearing it?"

The wolf _roars._

"I do," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the nape of his neck before he slips one arm beneath his chest, and it says something for how completely Jaskier trusts him that he offers no resistance when Geralt pulls him up, sits back on his heels and guides Jaskier onto his knees between his thighs, lets his bard recline against his chest. "You look beautiful in everything."

Jaskier gives a whine in response, and he's so weak, so boneless, completely limp in Geralt's arms. He lets his head fall back onto the witcher's shoulder, tips it to the side to bare his throat when Geralt runs his hand up to fit gently around the base. "So do you," he murmurs, and he whimpers as Geralt reaches down between his legs, wraps his other hand around his cock and pumps him gently once, twice. "Geralt..."

He purrs in reply, nosing into the exposed skin of his throat and licking over one of the marks he'd left. "I've got you," he murmurs, finally letting go when Jaskier begins to squirm. "I've got you, little lark, just be still... you trust me?"

"Always," he breathes, and it's such an immediate response that Geralt's heart aches. He kisses his jaw again, smiles when Jaskier murmurs, "I trust you with my life..."

Geralt lets go of his throat then, one arm still braced about Jaskier's waist to keep him steady as he lifts the smaller man - just enough to align the weeping head of his cock with his bard's hole, just enough to guide him back down, down... and Jaskier arches with the first hint of pressure, gasps out a moan as Geralt lowers him onto his shaft, lets one hand fly up to tangle in the witcher's hair.

"I've got you," Geralt repeats, low and raw, voice muffled against his throat. He's fighting a growl at the feeling of Jaskier around him, so hot and wet and _soft,_ so fucking perfect even though he's only barely pressed inside... "I've got you, my love, you're okay..."

Jaskier chokes out a groan of his name, and his fist goes tighter in Geralt's hair. His back is arched, curving away from the witcher's chest, and Geralt keeps a firm grip on his waist, guiding him down as slowly as he can bear, but it clearly isn't enough - Jaskier is squirming, gasping for air already, and it's almost concerning - or it would be, if the bard's cock wasn't already growing hard, dripping once again.

The scent of it is enough to drive Geralt _mad._

He squeezes Jaskier's hips to soothe him, finally, _finally_ letting the bard bottom out, and fuck, he chokes back a moan of his own, stifling it against his jaw. "Easy, my love," he breathes, running a hand up beneath his chemise to flatten on his chest. He can feel it heaving, can feel every aborted breath and broken whine just under his palm. "Can you move...?"

"You're so _big,"_ is Jaskier's first reply, and he sounds fucking awed, he sounds strained, as if he truly hadn't been anticipating Geralt's size. "You're so - so big, Geralt, oh, _fuck..."_

Impossibly, Geralt feels himself fucking blush.

He turns his head to hide it, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck and breathing in deep of his musk as he lets himself move, rocking up into the heat of the pretty body against him. Jaskier gasps then, and his other hand comes up to grab at Geralt's arm; crooning low to soothe him, he lets the bard grasp at his wrist, their hands together under the fabric of the chemise. "You flatter me," he says with a quiet laugh. "I'm sure you've taken bigger..."

Jaskier whimpers then, fucking whimpers, and when he speaks next, it's so softly that Geralt isn't even sure he heard him right. "I've - I haven't let anyone do this," he confesses, and his voice breaks over a whine when Geralt's grip tightens on his waist, "not since I met you... no one else could be as good, I - I've only ever wanted _you..."_

Geralt fights a growl then, digging his nails into the curve of muscle just below his hands. "You've denied yourself of this?" he asks, and as he speaks, he rocks up _harder,_ drawing a broken keen from the man in his lap. "It's no wonder you came riding my thigh like a whore..."

His bard jerks and gasps then, and there are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, tears that spill free when Geralt squeezes that much harder, when he pulls him closer to his chest. "I want _you,"_ he chokes out, and his hips are shaking when he rolls them down, down to meet Geralt's own. "I can't - no one else, Geralt, the - the things I've yearned for you to do to me..."

"Tell me," he says immediately, and his voice is so rough, so raw, so _deadly_ that an apology is very nearly at the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier curves up, gasps out a moan, clenches his fist that much tighter in his hair. "Tell me, Jaskier."

"I can't," he protests, so quick and so harried, that Geralt knows he's lying. "I can't, Geralt, I - the things I've dreamed, I _can't - "_

Geralt breaks then. He thrusts up harder into Jaskier's pliant frame, revels in the cry his bard gives when he sinks his teeth in, bites down _hard,_ groans at the taste of blood on his tongue. _"Tell me,"_ he repeats, and the words come out as little more than a snarl, one fueled by carnal fucking lust, and Jaskier - 

Jaskier _sobs,_ rolling down onto his shaft with as much steadiness as he can muster when he's so obviously ruined. "I want - I want you to breed me," he gasps, and his sentence runs together, blurs into a moan when he arches beneath Geralt's touch, "I want you to fill me up, o - over and over again, want you to leave me _dripping,_ Geralt, I - I need - "

Never before has Geralt hungered so intensely for a partner - no, not a partner, his _mate,_ insists the wolf, and it's the wolf that makes him press up harder, makes him dig his nails in and lave his tongue along the wound he'd left behind. "Do the women know you're such a cockslut?" he breathes, and there's a note of cruelty in his tone, a harsh and biting edge that makes his bard tremble in his arms. "Do they know you've been yearning for a man, for the witcher you sing of?"

The sound his bard gives is wrecked, caught between a sob and a keen. "I told - I told one once," he fumbles out, and Geralt shudders at the thought, a low moan rising in his throat. "A woman at a brothel, she asked - she asked who I was there to forget..."

Through the haze of need, through the lust clogging his mind, Geralt hurts with those words.

Almost instantly, he slows his pace, ignores Jaskier's broken little whine, gentles his hands on his chest and waist to draw him in closer. "Never again," he murmurs, and it's a promise and a prayer all at once, spoken right against his bard's ear. "I swear to you, my lark, I'll never turn you away..."

Even the witcher isn't so emotionally incapable as to believe the tears that fall from Jaskier's eyes then are from stimulation alone.

"I've loved you," the bard tells him softly, turning his head in a vain attempt to hide, and he's still got one hand in Geralt's hair, and it isn't the most comfortable angle, but Geralt isn't about to protest. "I've always loved you, my wolf, I can't bear to be alone..."

Rolling up into the velveteen heat of his body, Geralt kisses his jaw, mouths along his heated skin. "You'll never be alone... never again, I swear to you on my life..."

He feels, more than he can see, Jaskier's smile, right against his cheek. The air reeks of sex, of his bard's musk and sweat and seed, and of the tears running down his face, and Geralt's head is swimming with it. "I can't - I can't hold on," Jaskier breathes, and his voice breaks, threatens to fall apart entirely. "Please, I want - let me come - "

Purring low, Geralt drops his hand from his bard's chest, runs it lower to wrap around his cock, and Jaskier's hips buck, and he gives a sobbing cry. "Go ahead, my lark," he murmurs, twisting his hand. "Go ahead..."

For the second time that night, Jaskier obeys, thrusting up into his hand with the sort of broken cry that Geralt _knows_ he will never tire of hearing. He sounds fucking ruined, and when he spills over Geralt's palm, the scent makes him _snarl,_ bucking up harder into his bard, only Jaskier has clenched down tight around him, caught in the throes of ecstasy, and he's so _fucking **tight**_ that Geralt chokes back a cry of his own - 

His orgasm hits him in that instant, so sudden that he nearly doubles over against Jaskier, so intense that he can't help but _bite,_ sink his fangs into the tender flesh of his shoulder and thrust in deep and _groan,_ long and low and broken. He knows he doesn't imagine the way the scent of Jaskier's arousal spikes as he spills deep inside him, filling him with hot, wet seed, just as he'd all but begged for.

"Geralt," Jaskier is breathing, fumbling over even the simplest of syllables, his voice raw and barely audible. "Geralt, Geralt, my wolf... my wolf, _please..."_

Only when the taste of blood on his tongue registers does Geralt release the grip he has on his bard's shoulder, panting for air nearly as harshly as Jaskier. "Breathe," he murmurs, holding him steady, though it seems a lost cause, as Jaskier is trembling just from being on his cock. "Breathe, my lark, you're okay..."

Jaskier gives a low moan that indicates he very much agrees, and one glance at him is enough to tell that he is very, very much out of it.

Part of Geralt preens at that.

"I'm going to lay you down, okay?" he tells him softly, and as he speaks, he's taking Jaskier by the hips once more, lifting him up off his cock with the same delicate care he'd used to lower him down. "Do you want any salve...?"

Although he winces a little with the loss, Jaskier offers no protest as Geralt sets him gently back in bed, far enough from the slowly-drying wet spot that he should have no reason to complain. "In the morning," he mumbles, rolling onto his back as soon as Geralt lets go of him.

Geralt goes still for a moment, one hand still resting on Jaskier's side, and drinks him in.

He looks... wrecked. He looks well and truly fucked out, his skin flushed and bruising, throat and sternum and shoulders marked to hell and back, blood beading where Geralt broke the skin. That damn chemise is rumpled perhaps beyond repair - Jaskier will definitely complain in the morning - and it's rucked up enough to expose the subtle crescent marks on his waist from Geralt's nails, the slowly-forming bruises from his hands. As if completely aware of the witcher's gaze, Jaskier lets his legs splay apart, his own eyes falling shut.

Geralt sucks in a breath, fights the sudden swell of _need_ when he sees his own seed, dripping slowly from Jaskier's stretched and reddened hole. He tears his gaze away, taking in the bite mark on his thigh, the bruises all along his skin. "You're beautiful," he murmurs at last, smoothing his hand along his flank and hiding a smile when Jaskier melts beneath his touch, tilting his head toward Geralt even though his eyes remain close. "You always are..."

"Stop flattering me," is Jaskier's soft reply. He opens one hand where it's laying limp beside his head, cracking his eyes just enough to look at him. "Lay with me... hold me."

He doesn't react at first, holding Jaskier's gaze. At last, he lets himself relax, ignoring his bard's offered hand in favor of laying down at his side. Jaskier gives an inquisitive noise, and Geralt hums in response, soothing him into silence as he readjusts them both. It takes his bard only another moment to catch on, and within seconds, he's twisting onto his side, coiling back until he's pressed into Geralt's chest, the witcher's arms about his waist.

"I'll have a bath run in the morning," Geralt murmurs at last, nuzzling his way into the nape of Jaskier's neck and planting a kiss there, through his sweat-damp hair. "For now, just rest... you've more than earned it."

Jaskier gives a quiet laugh at that, lowering a hand to rest atop Geralt's own. "I'll warn you now, I'll be immensely offended if you take your leave of me before dawn." The words are teasing enough, but there's an undercurrent of honesty, one apparent enough that Geralt doesn't hesitate in holding him more tightly, in tilting his head to kiss one of the marks he'd left behind.

"I'll never walk away from you," he promises him softly. "I swear to you, my lark..."

He feels his bard relax then, if only minutely; Jaskier tips his head back, cranes until Geralt gets the hint and props himself up above the bard, kissing him soft and sweet. "I love you," he whispers as he draws away, and the smile that lights on Jaskier's face...

Geralt feels a matching one rise to his own, something akin to _home_ making his glacier-slow heart beat a little faster as he leans back down. Their kiss is deeper now, more deliberate... filled with the emotion Geralt tried for decades to suppress.

Here, now, sated and content, Jaskier cradled to his chest, Jaskier's lips against his own...

Yes.

Here is home.

**Author's Note:**

> The support I got on "call me sweet thing" was absolutely overwhelming, so I hope you guys enjoy this half as much! Thank you all.
> 
> Comments / criticism welcome!
> 
> tumblr: gravitational813
> 
> <3


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